LITMIR.BIZ

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would fit into life. Instead they simply had them, one after the other, and managed their personal and professional lives around them.

      Admittedly, France is set up for small children. Working mothers get a lot of time off to have children, and a good deal of financial support from the state as well. There are many options for their babies when they do go back to work – either a state-run crèche, which is like a day care centre but more personal and set up for tiny babies and very young children, or a nounou, babysitter, who generally works at her home and takes no more than three children at a time. At age three children start school, and they can stay there from 8.30 a.m. to 4.30 p.m. each day if parents desire, as lunch, snacks and nap time are provided.

      When I, aged thirty-five, finally had Joe the news was greeted with great joy by our friends in France. When I first brought him to visit, at eight months, Edith’s brother Christian the architect, who has four children, said, ‘Now that you’ve started you have to continue.’

      When we moved to France in 1993 Joe immediately became the chou-chou, or pet, of every gathering we attended, since our friends all had much older children. With his head of curly red hair and his round apple cheeks, he was a novelty.

      As we settled into living in Le Vaudreuil I realized how different our child-rearing was from that of our French friends. No one could understand why we didn’t immediately put Joe in day care, a thought that never crossed our minds. How could we? He didn’t understand a word of French, for one thing. For another, we’d just moved and he was unsure of everything.

      Edith couldn’t believe how much time we spent with him. ‘Why do you do that?’ she would ask. ‘It’s not good for him. He’s going to get too used to having you around. Put him in day care. Of course he’ll cry, but crying is necessary. It will make him stronger.’

      I looked at her. I looked at Joe. We did spend a lot of time with him, and he was upset right now, which meant we spent even more time with him. He occasionally woke at night crying inconsolably, and during the day his face would suddenly fall as he asked, bewildered, ‘Where is my house with all my coats?’ He didn’t like being the centre of attention wherever we went. He didn’t like the French custom of kissing. He was happy at home with us or with the babysitter, and he liked going to Edith’s, but he became shy and worried whenever we went to a new place. All those friends back home who’d said that as long as we were happy he’d be happy were, I realized, talking through their hats.

      I walked into his room one day and he was babbling to himself. ‘What are you saying?’ I asked him.

      He looked at me, startled. ‘I’m speakin’ French,’ he responded. That was when I understood. Much of what he heard was senseless babble, so of course he felt confused. We realized he needed to learn the language, then he could relax. Maybe Edith had a point.

      I went to the local public (state) nursery school in Le Vaudreuil, which had a very good reputation, to see about getting him in. I met with the principal, Annie Grodent, a lively young woman who listened to my story then agreed to take Joe, even though he wasn’t propre, or potty trained. He had been, but moving to France had made him revert to his baby ways. It was highly irregular to take a child who wasn’t potty trained, but she didn’t care as long as we understood that no one would change his diaper. They weren’t set up for that.

      We agreed to bring Joe for an hour a day. Michael and I walked him to school the first day, and we handed him over. He burst into tears. Annie, who as well as being the principal was also the teacher in his class, waved us away. I sat on the edge of a chair at home for an hour, then went to retrieve him. He was still crying – he hadn’t stopped. We repeated the exercise that week and the next, two of the worst weeks of Michael’s and my life. By the end of the second week he wasn’t crying, but he wasn’t letting go of Annie, either. She was wonderfully patient. None of this ‘A little crying is good for him’ or ‘It will make him strong’ that one hears so much in France in reference to children and their painful ordeals. She held him, sang to him, took care of him, all the while conducting her class.

      By month’s end, Joe was comfortable enough to play with the children, and we left him for two hours at a time, then three. By the end of three months he told us he had a friend, though he wasn’t sure of her name. One Sunday we went to a children’s program at the salle des fêtes – village hall – and his eyes lit up. ‘Mama, there she is, my friend,’ he said, pointing to a gorgeous little bright-eyed girl. I went to meet her and her parents, overcome with gratitude. They said they knew all about Joe. Annie had told me how their daughter, Lydia, though only three years old herself, had taken Joe under her wing and how they’d become fast friends. Thanks to Lydia, Joe looked forward to going to school, and after another three months he was speaking French like a native.

      Once Joe was comfortable to stay the morning at school, we could pay attention to what he was actually doing there. It was remarkable – Annie had the kids doing craft projects, music, theatre, gymnastics. She welcomed songs in English, which she tried to teach to the other children. They went on field trips, and had circus performers come and teach them juggling and balancing. It was wonderful, and Joe ended up loving it. We regretted that first month that was so hard on him but it was such a relief to see him integrated. His night awakenings stopped, and he visibly relaxed.

      Héloïse Tuyéras, a friend in her early seventies who once had a day care centre in her home and took care of Joe from time to time, lives in Le Vaudreuil, and her house is the depot for the local Catholic charity. This means that people with goods to give away simply drop them outside her front door, and she spends her time sorting, mending, cleaning and ironing everything that comes her way, then making sure they go where they are most needed.

      When I stopped in to see her during our first week, she pointed out a stack of things she’d been collecting for us. I was surprised. ‘Héloïse, we’re not needy, we can get these things for ourselves,’ I said, imagining truly needy people going without.

      ‘Don’t be silly, Suzanne,’ she said. ‘I get so many things, you need so many things.’ She convinced me not to rest on my pride, and handed me a large bag of Lego for Joe, and an ironing board. That began a stream of goods which came our way from Heloise. One day, while we were still in the little house by the river, which Joe referred to as ‘France’, she called to see if Michael could pick up a four-burner stove that was almost like new. ‘You can have it if you want it,’ she said. ‘It belongs to a woman who wants to get rid of it, doesn’t want to sell it, doesn’t need the money.’ This was a gift from heaven. I was cooking on the two burners which were in the house when we moved in, managing, but I couldn’t do any real serious cooking or recipe-testing. We’d been putting off buying a stove, however, for even the simplest are very expensive. Michael returned that afternoon with the stove, which was a modern, dark-brown Rosières, a well-known brand. It had three gas burners and one electric, a curious but common quirk in French stoves. The electric burner was like an emergency burner should the gas be cut off, apparently created after the Second World War when this often happened. Michael made room for it on our little corner kitchen – with Florence’s blessing – and I was back in business. I could cook real meals again.

      We now refer to Héloïse as our guardian angel for during that year she watched over us, continuing to supply us with things we needed, even before we realized we needed them. She lived just a few houses away and would stop by with toys, books and clothes for Joe, or to tell us about furniture that was available. One day she brought over a laundry rack, the next day a small chair for Joe, or a beautiful cotton sheet – small things that made life easier for us. She also invited us over for memorable meals which we shared together in her small house.

      As the months progressed toward winter, rain and bone-chilling days set in. Michael set off early every morning for the house in Louviers while I got Joe off to school, then worked in my office. Michael would return at noon to pick up Joe, then he worked on plans for the house while Joe napped, and played with him while I worked. We’d been in the little house by the river for two months by then, about the amount of time we’d thought to stay there. But things on the house in Louviers were going slowly, and it was impossible for us to move in yet. Everything

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